Collide
by MG12CSI16
Summary: '"I'm pregnant." Two words, ten letters. He counts them once, then twice.' As his life seems to spiral out of control, Sherlock makes a decision that affects not only himself but those around him as well. An angst ridden one shot with some very slight Sherlolly at the end.


So this is an experiment, and it has become my baby. Quite literally. I have edited and changed this thing more times than I can count and I'm finally satisfied, at the same time I'm almost sad that I've finished it. It was a different experience writing it and my first attempt at anything even remotely Sherlolly. Needless to say it's a tad AU and may be a teensy bit OOC, but hey, I tried. Reviews and thoughts would be lovely and much appreciated. Enjoy!

A big thanks also goes to the lovely _There's A Time Lord In Lima_ for the beta and support!

* * *

**Collide**

_The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown_

_The lion chased the unicorn all around the town_

"I'm pregnant."

Two words, ten letters.

He counts them once, then twice.

He falters, prays she doesn't see before his mouth is once again set in a straight line.

"Sherlock?" Molly's voice is tiny and distant; her face contorted into an expression he can't read. He glances up, catches her eye before looking away. The gaze, red hot, burns his skin. The lack of a response creates a moment of pressure, and Sherlock doesn't do well under pressure. He racks his brain, running a hand through his mass of dark curls and slumps into his chair by the fire.

"Did you hear me?" Molly steps closer, raises her voice and grips her keys tighter. He watches the skin of her knuckles turn ghostly white, like the rest of her face.

He stops, mouth opening a few times like a fish and finally, "Uh, yes. I heard. That's nice. I'm assuming you're looking for congratulations, things that normally accompany news like this?"

Now it's Molly's turn to open her mouth, disbelief and hurt filling her dark eyes. She laughs but it's not her normal giggle that accompanies each sentence, the one that comes from her throat and floats through the air like music notes. She crosses her arms and purses her lips. In the glow of the fire he can make out the tears collecting in her eyes.

"It's yours, Sherlock." She sounds angry and her voice quavers slightly. These words, unlike the others, had been enough to catch his attention and he stops with his violin resting beneath his chin and the bow in midair, caught in his now vice like grip.

There's a pause.

A tiny fraction of a second before he is finally able to speak.

"Hmm, I suppose that makes sense, assuming you haven't seen anyone else in the last few months or so." His words, in their entirety, aren't necessarily meant to hurt, but he does strike a nerve. He describes it in his mind as a coping mechanism. If he doesn't think about it, than it doesn't seem real. Almost like escaping into the withered pages of a story book.

Because Sherlock Holmes is destined to be alone.

He wouldn't know real feelings if they were to hit him in the face.

Molly knows this, he can tell. The way she shakes and points her finger at him, he can surely tell.

"Why on Earth would you think I just go sleeping around, huh? I _waited _for you, Sherlock Holmes. I waited for a man that has not even the tiniest regard for human emotion and look where it's gotten me! All I'm asking if for you to be there." Tears and makeup seem to paint a mural of black and grey across her cheeks, her voice reduced to a painful, pleading whisper. "I can't do this on my own."

Sherlock's face is molded into a scowl as he lays the bow on the strings of his violin, soft hums and layers of notes floating into the air before he stops and meets her eyes again.

"Molly, I think we both now this is not something I'm capable of." He swallows thickly and points his bow towards the door, still open just like she left it.

He doesn't look at her.

He can't.

"I think it's best if you go now. John will be back from the surgery soon and he'll almost surely be in a foul mood. He's been out all day."

It's a dismissal if Molly Hooper has ever heard one, and the words slice through her skin like a blade but instead of acknowledging the pain she turns on her heels and descends down the stairs. She manages not to cry until she's safely out the door.

_The moon is as sleepy as sleepy can be, _

_The stars are all pointing their fingers at me._

"What the bloody hell is the matter with you?"

A hand slams onto the kitchen table nearly one week later. John towers above him, his eyes glowing with anger and utter confusion. Or is it disbelief? More than likely, it's a combination. Sherlock looks up from his cup of tea, the steam forming wispy clouds in the air. He decides to play dumb.

"According to you or everyone else?"

John is seething now, unmoving while his hand shakes on the smooth surface of the wood. He purses his lips, opens his mouth and then closes it again. After a deep breath and a quick count to ten he looks back at Sherlock and slinks into one of the kitchen chairs.

"Molly's pregnant." The words fall from his lips as a statement and Sherlock's eyebrows rise slightly.

Word travels quickly.

He wonders who else knows.

Again, he plays dumb.

By now it's a reflex, he can't help it.

"Yes, I assume you've been listening to the gossip." The ex-army doctor's gaze lingers on him and Sherlock knows he can't ignore this. John is his best friend and this talk was something foreseen. It doesn't mean he has to like it though.

And so he sighs, folds the unread newspaper that's resting in his lap, and tries to stand. He has to get away, he can't talk about this. John has other ideas though and he reaches out, gripping Sherlock's wrist tightly.

"Sit," he orders, voice sharp.

Sherlock sighs loudly. "I don't have time for this, John. We've a case this morning so you need to make yourself ready." Sputtering, John stands and once he's next to Sherlock, looks deep into the consulting detectives green eyes as he shakes his head.

"I don't think you understand," he grinds out, "this is your child, Sherlock. It's not some experiment whose outcome you can control. Whether you like it or not, this child is coming into this world and it needs a father and I _know _Sherlock, I know you are not that much of a senseless idiot to not realize this."

He thinks about laughing, grinning maybe.

Anything to keep the worry that gnaws at his insides from showing itself on his face.

Instead, he offers a pathetic, "We'd better go," and disappears before John can speak again, leaving the words hanging on the tip of his tongue. Through a sigh he wrestles his phone from his pocket and quickly types out a message. He's only able to pray that this works. If not, he's unsure what to do next.

_Jack be nimble_

_Jack be quick_

They arrive at their scene, every pair of eyes watching Sherlock with a newfound interest that they hadn't had just a week before. He tries to ignore it but John can sense his discomfort, hears it in his voice as he hesitates before breaking off into one of his deductions.

They manage to solve the case in what seems like record speed. Ten minutes, start to finish and he's even able to find the murder weapon. The bloody pair of scissors are handed to Anderson without as much as a word before the duo disappears outside into the cool air, everyone craning their necks to watch them go. Sherlock is a good five feet ahead of John and he's still moving.

He can't breathe, can't speak.

Everyone knows, he can tell by the stares and the whispers.

It shouldn't affect him this way.

_Nothing _affects him this way.

John watches Sherlock with worry, or at least as much as he's able to muster right now as they finally make it out of the stuffy office. His flat mate is leaning against the wall of the grey brick building, fingers rapidly massaging his temples as he looks at the ground. With a quick glance at his watch John realizes he needs to head to the surgery. He chews his lip and takes a step towards his friend.

"Sherlock, I'm heading off to work. You'll get a cab home?" There's a muffled response that somewhat resembles a groan but John's patience have long run out and he steps toward the curb to hail a taxi. He offers one last look at Sherlock before the car speeds away and he collapses against the seat. With eyes squeezed shut he can only hope that his friend is able to see past his ways in time.

For some reason doubt has a tight grip on him.

_Oh mother dear, we sadly fear that we have lost our mittens_

Sherlock does eventually make it home, relishing the warmth that comes from within 221B as he removes his coat and scarf. He knows what awaits him before he's even turned the corner and when he comes face to face with the one and only Mycroft Holmes he's not surprised. Annoyed maybe, but not surprised.

"What is it?" he snaps, "I've had a long day and I haven't got the time to play any of your games." He drops down into the chair across from his brother, folding his hands in his lap. Mycroft offers a smile, amused that his genius brother is unaware of his true intentions.

He really is slipping.

"You know, dear brother, I have always pegged you as one to make utterly ridiculous decisions. But this-" he pulls out a grainy, black and white photograph with a blob centered in the middle, "-is perhaps the _most _ridiculous of all."

An ultrasound.

He stares at it, running a hand over his mouth.

Finally he reaches out a shaky hand and grips it tightly.

"When is this from?" he questions, looking at the tiny peanut shaped _fetus_ in the picture. He sticks to the word fetus, if he thinks of it as a baby it would mean he cared.

And he certainly did not.

He couldn't.

The ultrasound is shoved back into Mycroft's hands as proof.

"You should know," his brother accuses, arching one eyebrow slowly and waiting for a response. "This is your child after all." Sherlock feels anger bubble in his throat and in his stomach. Mycroft knows his weak spots, knows what will hurt and where exactly to place each strategic blow. A breath escapes through his clenched teeth and he rises to his feet, pacing in front of the fire place.

"You know this isn't something I can do, brother. A child has no chance with me as a father, no chance to have a normal life. You know this better than anyone so I don't understand why you've come here to change my mind. My decision, although it may not be morally correct in this society, is final."

"Are you saying you're scared?" Mycroft questions, looking somewhat amused. He's not used to having the upper hand but his younger brother is slowly crumbling in front of him and he grabs the opportunity, ready to run with it. At the question Sherlock's eyes flare and he stops, looking down on his brother as if the roles had been reversed.

"No," he hisses, "I am not afraid; I'm only telling you what you should already know." He flops into the chair again, a sign that the conversation was truly over before it even began.

With a resigned sigh of defeat Mycroft Holmes stands, umbrella in hand, disappearing almost as silently as he was sure to have arrived. Before he leaves he makes sure he reaches into his coat pocket, retrieving the ultrasound and resting it on the table beside Sherlock.

When he hears the door close, he breathes.

He sucks in air like he's been deprived for a lifetime.

There is a moment of tense silence after his brother leaves. Time for him to doubt his words and fall even deeper into the hole he's managed to dig for himself. Dropping his head into his hands he catches sight of the object his brother has left and he grabs the picture, running his thumb over the smooth surface.

He never tells anybody that he keeps it folded in his pocket for the next few weeks.

_When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall_

It's a rainy Monday and he stands outside the flat, it is now almost seven long months since he's been there. Memories of a night filled with soft touches and lips that taste like candy assault his mind, make it harder than it already is to see. He draws in a deep breath of air that tastes like rain water and fear before he knocks on the door, hand falling back to his side quickly.

He hears a rustling on the other side before it opens slightly, Molly's face peeking through the crack. She sees Sherlock, eyes widening more than he thought possible.

"Uh, what… what do you want?" she finally stutters, still hidden by the door. He wonders if he should be offended by the question and the tone of her voice, but Sherlock's no idiot and even he knows he lost all rights to a polite conversation when he turned her away.

He tries to smile. It feels heavy on his lips.

He closes his eyes and presents the flowers he's holding behind his back. Petals have been lost to the wind and rain but her eyes light up for a fraction of a second.

He takes this as a good sign, remembers to thank John for the suggestion.

"I think it's time we talked." He finally admits with his voice sincere. Molly rests her head against the door frame and sighs, contemplating. Finally the door opens and he stares, harder than he should.

At nearly seven months pregnant she was huge, and Molly, as long as Sherlock has known her, has never been huge. Her hand rests protectively on her swollen belly, unconsciously rubbing it as if she's soothing the baby inside.

"Come on then," she encourages when he doesn't move, "you'll catch a cold if you stand out there any longer."

He takes the first step inside the apartment, finding it almost exactly as it was the last time they had been there together. The walls were a rich burnt orange color, offering warmth in the normally grey and chilly city. Books lined the shelves along with pictures and memories. He had remembered laughing at her the first time, asked her why she needed all these things.

It had been the night before he returned to John, exhausted and seemingly lost.

He had never been so vulnerable before.

Of course she had at first been offended but then she had gone around, telling him the story behind every one of them, the pictures and the knick knacks. All of it. Surprisingly, Sherlock had listened. He learned about her childhood, about her parents and how she knew she wanted to be a pathologist by the time she was thirteen years old.

She had told him her entire life story and he hadn't uttered a word the entire time.

He wasn't sure who was more surprised.

"So, what is it that brought you here?" She asks, breaking through his thoughts. She was offering him a cup of tea and he took it gratefully. Slowly she eased herself into the chair across from him, the normally easy task seeming to exhaust her now. He sips his tea too quickly, scalds his tongue.

"I wanted to apologize." He says plainly, as if it were obvious. He couldn't possibly tell her it had been John who suggested the apology, telling Sherlock it was in everyone's best interest to at least smooth things out.

And of course, she sees right through him.

Molly watches him with a disbelieving look and he sits up, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice drops to a whisper she has to strain to hear. He needs her to know that although it may not have been his idea, he was serious.

"I need you to know Molly that this decision has nothing to do with you. It has nothing to do with the child-"

"It's our child," she cuts in quickly, "whether you like it or not, this is your child too, Sherlock." She's defensive and he finds no reason for her not to be. He closes his mouth quickly and turns his head, staring at the potted flowers on the other side of the room.

"Do you remember?" she asks him suddenly, head tilted to the side in wonder. His eyebrows furrow and he looks at her again. She glows in the light coming from her fire place, the orange glow reflecting off the sheen of her pale skin.

"Do I remember?" he echoes. "Remember what?"

"That night. The one where you came here soaked to the bone and utterly exhausted. The night you finally finished that battle you had devoted yourself too. You said you were finally done fighting."

"Of course I remember." The response is instant. It was one of the only things from that long six months he hadn't erased from his mind.

He couldn't, no matter how hard he had tried.

"I had waited so long for that, you know. I never thought it would happen, being that it was you. At first I thought I had taken advantage of you, but you caught on quickly." She smiles; huffs out a small, breathy laugh at the memory that makes him feel somewhat warmer.

She looks happy.

And that makes _him _happy.

_For this is the house that Jack built_

"Molly I really need to go. I'm supposed to be meeting Lestrade in less than an hour." Molly has a hold of his hand, dragging him as quick as she can down the hallway towards her spare room. He protests, complains, but never actually tries to pull away from her.

They stop in front of the white, wooden door and she smiles as she looks at him. She gestures for him to open the door, hope twinkling in her eyes. There's hesitation and some uncertainty but eventually, Sherlock does open the door, peering inside and flicking the light on.

The walls, formerly white and bare were now a glorious shade of yellow, pictures of jungle animals painted all around. Molly smiles proudly, her hand still resting on her belly as she surveys the room.

"Do you like it? Even though it's a girl I didn't think I'd be able to stand a pink nursery." Her voice trails off and Sherlock freezes, his hand hovering above the smooth dark wood of the crib in the center of the room. He keeps his eyes on the walls but raises his voice so she can hear him.

"Did you say it's a girl?" he questions, keeping his tone casual. Soft footsteps approach him and Molly appears, a sad smile tugging at her pale lips.

"Yeah, I wanted it to be a surprise but I'm not that good at waiting." She giggles a true Molly Hooper giggle that takes him back in time before their lives had been under someone else's control. It's like rereading that same old story book with the words faded and the pages crinkled.

But of course, remembering would mean caring.

And he didn't care.

He couldn't.

"Well, this is quite lovely but I really do have to go now. Take care alright?" he leaves, practically sprinting out the door and into the rain again. He swallows and covers his face with his hands, muttering to himself and attracting the attention of passerby's who watch him with curiosity.

They must think he's crazy.

And maybe he is.

It's the only plausible explanation.

'_Twas grace that taught my heart to fear_

On the tenth day of April, it's Molly's due date. It's also the day she goes into labor.

She calls John, fearing that Sherlock would be too busy to answer and because she has no one else. The two have a hushed but very serious conversation that Sherlock pretends not to hear.

Inside his gut churns. He closes his eyes and tries to block out the noise.

John rushes around the flat, calls down to Mrs. Hudson and rushes around some more. Sherlock overhears something about a missing shoe and without looking up from his phone he calls out to John in a casual and slightly annoyed tone.

"Under your bed. You always take them off before you go to bed." He hears a grunt and a triumphant laugh, and then suddenly he can't hear anything. Glancing up he sees John standing in front of him with an expectant look in his eyes.

"Yes?" Sherlock inquires, standing up and moving towards his coat, "I need to get to a scene. Lestrade's already phoned twice." John laughs, shaking his head and grabbing the detective's shoulders with a force that surprises both of them.

"You're insane aren't you?" John questions, pulling the taller man closer. "You're absolutely insane! Molly is having a baby Sherlock, your baby! There's no time for a case right now."

With a roll of his eyes he wriggles out of John's steel grip, wrapping his scarf around his neck and leaning against the door.

"John please, there's no reason for me to be there. Molly needs someone who can support her. We both know that isn't me."

"Oh, come on Sherlock. You don't honestly believe that do you?" John can tell by the look on his face that he does believe that and before John can even try to convince him otherwise Sherlock has disappeared out the door.

Cursing under his breath, John rushes outside to hail a cab of his own.

_Hush little baby don't you cry_

He's at the scene longer than he anticipates, sifting through the evidence in the room and muttering under his breath as he calculates and draws conclusions in the confides of his mind. He can't concentrate and all the numbers and sounds and colors seem to run together. Lestrade looks on, concerned but never saying anything.

He's interrupted just before he's about to come up with some kind of answer.

He curses, loudly.

It's his cell phone. John's number.

"What? What is it?" he snaps loudly, hand flailing in the air. He was so close.

"_Sherlock, something's wrong." _The doctor's voice is shaky; Sherlock can picture him sweating and hears the squeak of his shoes on the floor. Fear grabs a hold of him and refuses to let go.

"What's the matter? Is it Molly?" A thousand scenarios run through his mind and he wants to scream. His vision is blurring and he stumbles, just slightly. He feels a steady hand holding him up but he doesn't bother to look at the face.

He's scared.

Utterly _terrified._

"_The cord is around the baby's neck… the heart rate keeps dropping. She's asking for you Sherlock." _

He doesn't really remember it but apparently he starts running. His boots tearing into the concrete with loud thuds and he ignores the protests coming from those he pushes out of the way. They didn't understand how desperate he was.

_How precious did that grace appear the hour I first believed_

Some actually say that that day was a miracle. Not only because a new life entered the world, but because those who were there witnessed a change no one had thought possible.

John is seated in the waiting room, foot tapping insistently on the linoleum floor when he hears the thundering steps. He can't hide the smile when he sees Sherlock, because he knew from the beginning that he had met a man capable of many things.

And Sherlock had proven himself today. Right now.

"Thank God, I wasn't sure you'd come. After you hung up the phone I-"

"Where is she?" Sherlock demands in a voice John has only heard once before. The desperation in it is almost painful to hear. Without a word he points down the hall to the door on the left. Sherlock is gone before he even has time to speak.

He stands in the doorway, unsure if he should go any further. Unsure if he is even allowed any further.

He watches Molly, cradling a tiny pink bundle in her arms and he suddenly loses control.

His feet carry him.

His heart races.

The sound of someone approaching alerts the new mother and her head snaps up, her eyes welling when she sees Sherlock in front of her, seemingly in awe.

She tries to speak and a sob escapes, leaving her in a desperate staring match with the dark haired man. He isn't crying but she can see that there's a change in his eyes, they've softened and she can't find any remnants of the steely glare they once possessed.

"I'm sorry Molly," he whispers the words as he comes to a stop beside the bed, looking from her face to the blanket in her arms. He sinks into the wooden chair beside him, at a loss for words. They've all abandoned him, the words, and the apologies. All of it is gone.

It's just the three of them.

_Three._

"Would you like to hold her?" Molly finally finds the courage to ask, although still afraid of being turned down. To her surprise Sherlock gives a nod, holding out his hands like she was going to toss a ball his way. She hides her amusement, showing him how to cradle their daughter and after a moment she sits back and watches the two in a sight she never in her wildest dreams imagined she'd see.

"She's tiny," he comments, stroking the tuft of dark hair on her head.

Molly smiles. "She's six pounds exactly. A bit on the small side but perfect none the less. Hasn't got a name though, I've been struggling with that a bit." She breaks off with a yawn, rubbing at her eyes but never taking them off the pair beside her. "I was thinking about Annabelle, though."

As the name leaves her lips a smile forms on Sherlock's face. "Easy to love," he murmurs.

And it was true.

It was the easiest thing he's ever done.


End file.
